Pound It
by sugarplumdreams
Summary: Henry teaches Killian the "fist bump." (Posted to Tumblr April 24th, 2014.)


**Prompt** by killianslonghaul: _**Liz, I need you to write my a Captain Cobra/CS fic where Henry (with memories) tries to give Killian a fistbump and then has to explain what it is and what it means. Bonus points if there's some CS fluffiness thrown in, too. 3 (I would but I don't trust myself to do it justice) **_(Posted to Tumblr April 24th, 2014.)

* * *

><p>"So there I was," Killian tells Henry, moving in front of him animatedly as he recounts the tale. "Blades crossed with the Dread Pirate Blackbeard." He makes a swipe with his imaginary sword, feet crossing and body circling around an invisible foe.<p>

"And _then_?" Henry asks with rapt attention.

"Oh, he's good — excellent swordsman, I'll give him that much…but I'm better."

"Naturally," Henry agrees, completely entertained.

"And I know my way around _my_ ship-" He gives Henry a pointed look. "A good Captain does, hmm?" When the boy nods, Killian continues his story. "So I shove him back and use my sword to force his step into a loose board I hadn't yet fixed."

"_Nice_. That's so cool," Henry grins. "Then what?"

He shrugs but puffs out his chest just a little bit and smirks at the boy. "I won. I got my ship back."

"And you came back to New York?"

Killian's face grows serious as he remembers the rest of the events that led them to this point, heart still stinging at some of the dishonorable choices he'd made. "Not quite," he answers vaguely, sitting beside Henry on the crate. "But it was a start."

The young lad, as perceptive as his mother, narrows his eyes and frowns slightly. "What happened after?"

"To Blackbeard?"

"To _you_," he says.

He ruffles his hair affectionately and gives him a soft smile. "Tis a tale for another time, my boy. The moral of that story, as far as sparring goes, is: knowledge is power. If you know yourself and your capabilities, if you know your enemy and his weaknesses, if you know your surroundings and you've a quick enough mind to strategize at a moment's notice, you are at an immediate advantage against your opponent. You understand?"

Henry nods again and Killian claps him on the back companionably then abruptly stills and quirks an eyebrow when Henry holds his fist out towards him. His eyes flicker back and forth between it and Henry's face.

"What are you doing? What is that?" he asks suspiciously.

"It's a…fist bump." Henry squints at him, canting his head to the side while he studies him. "You know, you just…" He closes both of his hands into fists then bumps them together.

Killian is utterly bewildered. "And what exactly is its purpose, lad?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, as if Killian should just _know_, of course. "You can use it for a lot of things…greeting people…celebrating something…if you like something someone says, you can use it for that too."

He stares at the lad for a long moment, wrapping his mind around the concept. "So you just…" He curls his fingers into his hand and awkwardly makes the motion with fist and hook.

"There's nothing like that from your realm?" Henry asks with a furrowed brow, watching as Killian juts his lower lip out while he contemplates that. When he shakes his head, Henry shrugs. "Well, sometimes people even say, 'pound it,' when you do it."

Killian's face scrunches at the unfamiliar phrase.

"Yeah, look." He nods, lips curving up as he offers his fist up again. "Pound it."

Killian obliges, hesitantly pressing his own fist to Henry's. "Pound it." He states firmly.

"Nice." Henry grins, obviously amused by the whole thing. "There you go."

As the boy settles in beside him, Killian can't help but reflect _deeply_ on this realm's odd behaviors and customs. It's overwhelming sometimes, to see how vastly different this world is then to attempt to become acclimated to its various idiosyncrasies and many strange idioms.

He glances over at Henry, studying his profile as he stares up at the clear blue sky, own thoughts seemingly far away. Killian wonders how Swan would react to this new bit of information he's acquired, he imagines she'll be pleased by his exceeding efforts to become accustomed to their world. His mouth tips up at the corners while he reflects on it — perhaps she'll treat him to one of her smiles, then lean over and brush her lips over his in that special way she does when she finds him sweet.

_Pound it_, he mouths to himself again.

* * *

><p>Emma doesn't bother looking up when she hears the door to the station open, the familiar tingle that shoots across her shoulders and down her spine, is enough indication as to who it is.<p>

"Hey," she calls out, body coiling in delicious anticipation for his usual kiss in greeting.

When it doesn't come and he doesn't reply, her eyes lift from the page of the report she's looking at. Her stomach flips abruptly. He's smirking at her like an _idiot_, all handsome and playful and _Jesus_, she was not ready for that.

Emma's brows pinch together, watching the way he saunters over to her. He does that little shuffle he always does when he's being _extra_ flirty, steps slow and measured while he pushes his tongue into his cheek and his eyes dance mischievously. Heat begins to simmer, low and delightfully in her belly because — _damn it_ — she can never resist him when he looks at her like that.

By the time he makes it within arm's reach, her body's already vibrating with need and she curses frustratedly in her mind — she's like an overly hormonal teenager who's just discovered sex for the first time whenever he gets within twenty feet of her (_for fuck's sake_). He rocks back onto her heels, his stupid grin lighting up his already attractive face and Emma's basically given up on ever feeling like a normal person in his vicinity.

"Swan," he says cheerfully (in the way that hints that he knows _exactly_ what he does to her).

She sets the folder in her hands down (a lady's got to be prepared, naturally) and angles her body away from the open file cabinet. Her fingers are itching to latch onto the collar of his coat, or in his hair, or wherever else she can grab onto and anchor herself, but he makes no move for her and she wonders if someone can actually die from anticipation.

"Jones," she answers, eyes flickering down to his mouth of their own accord when he bites at his lower lip.

The expression on his face is expectant and just as she hits her breaking point and is simply about to pounce on him (if you want something done at all, apparently you have to do it yourself), he holds his fist out in front of him and makes her freeze in place. Her head reels — it's a jolt to go from an onslaught of emotions to absolute confusion, and all she can do is stare back and forth between his closed hand and that _ridiculous_ expression on his face that's something between smug and seductive.

"_Pound it_," he says after a few more heartbeats of intense silence, lips and tongue rolling around the words so salaciously, it's borderline _obscene_.

Emma blinks, completely bewildered. "_Excuse me_? I'm sorry, did you just say…'_pound it_?'"

His face falls slightly at the utter lack of enthusiasm from her and there's a little squeeze in her gut.

"Yes?" he replies slowly, hawk eyes watching every nuance of her face. "Henry taught me how to…" He gestures animatedly with his hand now. "'Fist bump' I believe it's called."

Of course he did. She sighs as she looks at his closed fist once more.

"Was that wrong, love?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.

When she looks back to him, she sees a flash in his eyes, one that reminds her that he gave up _everything_ for them, for _her_ — his home, his entire realm, everything he'd ever _known_ and been familiar with, to _be_ with her. He loves her and he's trying his damnedest to fit in _here_, in this modern, confusing, intimidating land without magic and _oh_, her darling, _idiot_ pirate.

Her expression softens as she offers him a gentle smile while she shakes her head. She closes the distance between them, sliding right into his side with an arm around his waist so she can use her free hand to bump her fist with his. He grins at her, looks at her like she's everything (like the Goddamn moon and stars and _sun_), and so she pushes up onto her toes to brush her mouth tenderly over his.

"I love you," she murmurs lightly.

* * *

><p>They've unleashed a monster, one with no semblance of propriety or appropriately <em>timed<em> fist bumps.

Whale feeling a bit under the weather? _Bad luck, mate_, he'd told him, proceeding to touch his closed hand against the bewildered doctor.

David announcing his and Mary Margaret's conception of a third child? _Well done, mate, at least this time you remember the planting, _he'd chuckled, abruptly hooking his hook around David's wrist then closing his fingers into a fist before pounding it with his own.

The poor reception of Granny's latest lunch special? _Tough luck, lass_, _maybe next time, _he'd winked before bumping his fist against her _open_ hand.

By the time she makes it home one day (after _weeks_ of this), she's had it with his fist bumps (_really,_ of all the things to latch onto). She slams the door shut and puts her hands on her hips as she stands in front of where he's reading on the couch. Judging by the insistent way he keeps his eyes from hers, he already knows what she's up in arms about.

"Did you tell Robin to fist bump Regina after sex?"

His face is completely devoid of emotion as he slowly lifts his gaze to hers. "I've no clue what you're referring to."

She rolls her eye and sighs exasperatedly. "Killian, I swear to God," she mumbles, moving towards the kitchen to grab a glass of wine (she'll bring back the bottle for later — Lord knows she'll need it). She can feel his lingering stare after her retreating form and sense the amused smirk on his lips. She wants to pull her hair out.

* * *

><p>Months later, his sword clatters noisily to the ground as he collapses beside her, sweaty and grimy and most likely as sore as she is. "You alright?" he asks.<p>

She turns her hand, squeezing his wrist when his hook latches around hers. Her breath comes in pantings gasps as she tries to slow her heartbeat down from the exerted effort of battle. "Yeah," she replies. "You?"

"Still alive…close there for a second," he mumbles.

She hears the last vestiges of fear retreating from his voice and she remembers the way he'd screamed her name against a particularly difficult opponent (and the way he'd rushed in to protect her weak side). It makes her heart squeeze sweetly in her chest.

"Nicely done, Savior," he says after a moment.

She sees his fist move towards her in her peripheral vision and she can't help but laugh. He's an idiot, but he's _her _idiot and they're alive and they _won_. She doesn't even hesitate when she reaches across to bump their closed hands together, turning her head and kissing at his shoulder as she does so.

* * *

><p>"Oh my <em>God<em>," she exhales heavily. "I can't feel my legs. I can't feel anything."

He chuckles, lips kissing the tops of each breast before brushing over her heart then her mouth. "You're welcome," he answers, voice deep and smug and sated. He rolls off of her, shoulder grazing hers as he settles in beside her. "If it's any consolation, I think I've lost my head, or gone blind at the very _least_."

_Jesus._ Jesus Christ she can't think straight, body still tingling and humming in pleasure while little white stars dance along the edges of her vision. "We might just kill each other one of these days."

He makes some noise of agreement in the back of his throat while he tries to draw air into his lungs, and she knows his thoughts mirror hers — it would be _so worth it_. Images of the two of them flash into her mind — tangled together, bodies rising and falling in perfect synchronicity, the harsh slap of flesh against flesh. She shivers and smiles wickedly. _So_ worth it.

Emma reaches up for the first time ever, fingers curling into her hand as _she_ offers her fist to _him_. "Nicely done, Captain," she tells him, glancing over to look at him.

He laughs and her stomach flips (it's her favorite sound in the world), then touches his fist to hers before wrapping his fingers around her wrist and pulling her hand towards him so he can kiss at her knuckles.

"Love you," he murmurs sleepily.

* * *

><p>She's sitting at the kitchen table, mug of cocoa in her hand while reading the morning paper. There's music playing softly in the background, intermixed with the sounds of Henry bustling about, getting ready for school. She hears Killian's quiet footsteps behind her and without looking up, raises her closed hand towards him in greeting.<p>

He doesn't 'pound it,' just slides his fingers gently around her wrist before bending down to kiss at the rings on her finger. "Good morning, wife," he greets.

Her heart stutters in her chest when she glances up at him and her face splits with a wide grin as he drops a lingering kiss to her lips. She'll never get tired of hearing him call her that, never get tired of the way the warmth seeps into every part of her and lights her up from the inside.

"Good morning, husband," she replies, reaching up with her free hand to cup his face in her palm and run her thumb across the scar on his cheek.

He kisses her again - just for good measure, just because he can - and she sighs contentedly. Killian smiles at her, lips pressing to her brow before he moves away from her. She watches him skirt the table to sit beside a high-chair where a green-eyed, dark-haired little toddler gurgles excitedly at him.

He chuckles and presses a kiss to the side of her head. "And good morning to you, my sweet lass," he says, grinning when the baby presses her tiny hand against his lips.

Emma doesn't swoon, she _doesn't_ (she totally does, _God_), but the smile seems permanently etched onto her face and she can't stop the squeeze in her chest as she watches the two of them together.

Killian nibbles playfully at his daughter's hand, then moves it away so she can latch tightly onto one of his fingers. His thumb brushes over the back of her hand. "Oh, do you want to fist bump your papa too?" He laughs when she let's out one happy, shrill squeal and shakes the finger she's holding. "Can you say 'pound it,' little love? Hmm?"

Henry comes flying into the kitchen (late _again_) and drops a quick kiss to the top of Emma's head before reaching across the table for a piece of toast and a slice of bacon. "Morning, I'm late, see you after school, love you guys."

She shakes her head in amusement, watching as he and Killian bump fists and he kisses his sister on the cheek. Little baby Jones reaches for him instinctively and Henry smiles. "Pound it, peanut," he tells her, touching his closed hand lightly to hers. "Pound it…atta girl! Be good," he says, kissing her one more time before waving at them and rushing out the door.

Killian glances over at her, eyes alight with happiness and _love_ and she grins at him because she _understands_ _completely_ — this is their family, this is their life, and it is amazing and beautiful and _perfect_. She rises from her seat, padding around the table to sit in his lap and wind her arms around his neck so she can kiss him sweetly on the mouth while the sound of their baby's chattering gibberish fills the room and fills their hearts to the brim.

_Fin_


End file.
